CHAPTER XXVI.
INDIA.
“How changed since last her speaking eye
Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
Where high-born men were proud to wait—
Where beauty watched to imitate
Her gentle voice and lovely mien—
And gather from her air and gate
The graces of its queen!”—Byron.
Early the next morning Mark Sutherland descended to the drawing-room. No one was there except Oriole, who had just stepped from her mistress’s boudoir, and was crossing the room, on her way to some other part of the house. Once more Mark Sutherland was mournfully affected by the marvellous, the fatal beauty of the poor girl. As she met and was passing him, with eyes cast down, cheeks painfully flushed, and heart beating, as it had too well learned to beat with fear at the look of man, his heart was moved with deep pity. He had known her from her infancy; he held out his hand, and spoke to her, saying—“How do you do, Oriole? You have not spoken to me since my arrival.” But without touching his hand, or even venturing a glance at his face, the maiden dropped a quick courtesy as she passed, and hurried on her errand.
“Poor, hunted, trembling deer!” said Mark: “she cannot even trust a friend. Is it possible to save her?”